Free Evil Eye by Joyce Carol Oates

crooked at the elbow so he could write with that hand.
    A curious thing: he’d removed his wristwatch to position it on the tabletop so that he could see the time at a glance. As if his time in the library might be precious and limited and he feared it spilling out into the diffuse atmosphere of the public library in which, like sea creatures washed ashore, eccentric-looking individuals, virtually always male, seemed drawn to pursue obsessive reference projects.
    So I continued with my diligent note-taking. Amphibian ancestors. Evolution. Prehistoric amphibians: why gigantic? Present-day amphibians: why dwindling in numbers?
    Trying not to appear self-conscious. With this unknown boy fewer than fifteen feet away facing me as in a mirror.
    A hot blush in my cheeks. And I regretted having bicycled to the library without taking time to fasten my hair back into a ponytail so now it was straggly and windblown.
    My hair was fair-brown with a kinky little wave. Very like the boy’s hair except his was trimmed so short.
    A strange coincidence! I wondered if there were others.
    My note-taking was scrupulous. If the boy glanced up, he would see how serious I was.
    . . . environmental emergency, fate of small amphibians worldwide . . .
    . . . exact causes unknown but scientists suggest . . .
    . . . radical changes in climate, environment . . . invasive organisms like fungi . . .
    Then, abruptly—this was disappointing!—after fewer than ten minutes the boy with the gold-rimmed glasses decided to leave: got to his feet—tall, lanky, stork-like—slipped his wristwatch over his bony knuckles, briskly shut up the reference books and returned them to the shelves, hauled up a heavy-looking backpack, and without a glance in my direction exited the room. The soles of his sneakers squeaked against the polished floor.
    There I remained, left behind. Accumulating notes on the tragically endangered class of creatures Amphibia, for my earth science class.
    Did it occur to you to exit the library at the rear? Just in case he was waiting at the front.
    Did it occur to you it might be a good idea not to meet up with this boy?
    Of course it didn’t occur to you, he might be older than he appeared.
    He might be other than he appeared.
    Of course it didn’t occur to you and why?
    Because you were sixteen. An immature sixteen.
    A not-pretty girl. A lonely girl.
    A desperate girl.
    â€œHey. Hi.”
    He was waiting for me outside the library.
    This was such a shock to me, a relief and a wonder—as if nothing so extraordinary had ever happened, and could not have been predicted.
    I had assumed that he’d left. He’d lost interest in me and he’d left and I would not see him again as sometimes—how often, I didn’t care to know—male interest in me, stimulated initially, mysteriously melted, evaporated, and vanished.
    But there he was waiting for me, in no way that might intimidate me: just sitting on the stone bench at the foot of the steps, leafing through a library book he was about to slide into his backpack.
    Seeing the look of surprise in my face the boy said “hi!” a second time, smiling so deeply, tiny knife-cuts of dimples appeared in his lean cheeks.
    Shyly I said hello. My heart was beating in a feathery-light way that made it hard for me to breathe.
    And shyly we stared at each other. To be singled out was such an unnerving experience for me, I had no idea how to behave.
    To feel this sensation of unease and excitement, and so quickly.
    Like a basketball tossed at me without warning, or a hockey puck skittering along the playing field in the direction of my feet—I had to react without thinking or risk getting hurt.
    Boldly, yet not aggressively he asked my name. And when I told him he repeated “Lizbeth” and told me his name—“Desmond Parrish.”
    Amazingly, he held out his hand for me to shake—as if we were adults.
    He’d gotten to his feet,